Interim
by keeponwritin
Summary: Innocent and cute. Whorish and manipulative. The double life of Manny Santos. [Oneshot, for the moment.]


Disclaimer: I dunn own Degrassi. Uh, duh?  
  
Note: Yeah, it's a relatively short one, but if I wrote anymore, I'd just be babbling. It's more straightforward, and I hope it's enjoyed. Oh, and by the way, this is not a coupling fic.  
  
Small Warning: Basically this entire thing alludes to sex, but there's no graphicity in the least, because I would hate myself if I ruined such a story with such awful lemon-ish things. And yes, if you were wondering, graphicity is not a word.  
  
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I felt small whenever I'd lie there, like a kitten starved for warmth. His skin was pallid, tinted blue by the moon, glowing at the edges. My one hand lay across his stomach, warm with the tiniest beads of sweat forming. My legs were enveloped tightly in the thin sheet he slept under on those nights I wasn't there. The cadence of the thumping in my ear paralyzed me, a sort of silent lullaby. My hair lay across the arm wrapped around me, resting just below my waist, limp now in the early hours before dawn. I could lie there forever, in all of my broken glory. Only thoughts destroyed the moment.  
  
We lay there in the afterglow. I'd started it all: the seduction, the temptation, the cycle of our lives that began in vain and ended in tear-stained misery. I couldn't be any more aware of it; nonetheless I gave the impression that I had no idea of the inevitable. This was the soap opera of our lives, and at the very least, I liked to think I played the part of the clueless naive girl. At the very worst, I was Degrassi's resident slut. I wasn't bothered by any of this. They were only parts; I was just a character. Let the rumors mold me. I can be whatever they need.  
  
I touched him. I let my fingertips glide across his bare skin. I couldn't help but think how gentle it felt. How slowly I could drag my fingers. How many sensations I could cause with just one small child's hand like mine. Tickle, and hear laughter; dig into with my fingernails, and hear pain. A whole range of human emotions lay at my fingertips, and the only thing keeping me from trying them all was my will power, my self-control. I'd come to realize that not only did I have the power to change things, but I controlled the power. I reveled in this; I had for all this time. At first I was only thought to be an attention-starved whore of a girl, but everything I'd built myself upon from that point on was about control. I could toy with emotions and be a tease and play hard-to-get, and when it all boiled down to it, I craved superiority.  
  
I had this over him. So few realized this, as it seemed I would follow his every whim, give in to all of his wants and needs and desires. But I pulled him under. Without every seeming overbearing, I made him see his life for the wreck that it was, and slowly, he began to find happiness only when we were together, and he thrived on these nights. I flirted with his misery, the darker side he veiled for years, then reached in and brought it to the surface. I made him believe I was the only thing he should live for. He was the disease, and I was his cure.  
  
It all sounded so ruthless. It sounded so heartless and when I thought about it too much, I started to hate myself. From the outside, I knew no one would understand. Naiveté is thought to be a stage in a person's life. Before grade nine, it was my way of life. It had become so sad and desperate, I depended on Emma to make decisions for me, because my gullibility would get the best of me and couldn't think rationally. I still thought like a little girl. Issues of sex and drugs and abuse blew over my head because I couldn't comprehend them, I couldn't understand that my happy little world of pure perfection was part of this grander scheme that included so much corruption. After so long, I couldn't wait any longer for this stage to pass. I grabbed the reins and chose my own path. I chose to leave so little to the imagination with my choices of clothing. I chose to sleep with other girls' boyfriends. I chose to lie in my bed some nights and cry myself to sleep. It hasn't caught up with me, yet. I still believe I'm on top.  
  
Love evaded me. I watched romance movies at a young age. I thought every girl, eventually, would be swept off her feet by the man of her dreams. Every boy I saw, I thought, he could be my Prince Charming, and I'd picture us under the stars. He'd speak to me in hushed tones and whisper my name, and after I'd turned to him and shyly blushed, he'd so gently lift my chin and dazzle me with a kiss as sweet as sugar. And in that moment, I'd be sure that we'd love each other forever. Reality evaded me. I think he was the one who tried to bring back the hope. He was supportive sometimes, in subtle ways like that.  
  
I was the one who gave it up. To hell with the romance. Touch me and use me. Don't throw me back down too hard when you're done with me, but don't kiss me either. A kiss afterwards was asking for love from the heartless. I was incapable; that part of me had deteriorated. He always tried to, and I could never figure out why. Kissing was a part of my former self, the innocent me that would kill to be whisked away and be given roses and be kissed and held gently. These days, pain equals pleasure, and if I pretended to enjoy the fingernails raking up and down my sides, then they were satisfied that much more, and I knew they'd be back. I lived to satisfy, they would think, when in fact my satisfaction came from theirs. Somewhere, in the depths of my mind, I still drew the connection between love and my innate ability to make every boy wish to taste my experienced lips. To make every boy wish I were his.  
  
I hated him, because he wanted both of me. He wanted my experience and he wanted my innocence. He would call me over nightly, but he wanted to be gentle. I would push him to use me. I told him I was his for the taking. Still, his cold gentle fingers would drift down my back and I would be reminded of who I was, who I used to be, the fairy tale nights I saw in my mind, the snuggling by the fire and the warm blankets that would cover us, and I couldn't take it. I couldn't have him destroy the depraved lifestyle I'd built for sanity. He was one boy, and his affections were stabbing holes in everything I'd created for myself. I hated him. I hated him so much.  
  
His heartbeat had slowed. I reached up with one hand, running my hand gently through the soft dark curls. His face was serene, and I wanted nothing more than to leave him to find himself alone and cold in the morning. In a few hours, he would sigh and whisper to me about how Joey would be waking up soon. He would apologize for forcing me to leave. As I get dressed, he would touch my shoulder, and move his lips towards mine. But I would turn away, at the last second. I wanted to escape, never return again, to never be reminded of love and its repercussions. Without him, it would be so easy. There were tons of boys out there, waiting for a girl as easy as I was. Waiting for a girl who had no problem being used, abused, then thrown away as yesterday's garbage.  
  
Instead I lay and watched my tears stream down his bare skin. And as I snuggled closer to feed off his warmth, I thought to myself, I don't really hate him.  
  
I only really hate myself.  
  
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Your input is wanted, needed, cherished and loved. Do give some. Grazie.


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